A Better Place to Be
by TrooperCam
Summary: No one went to jail, no one lost their license, but the damage was done all the same. A AU that examines what would happen if MLC and Words and Deeds had played out differently. A departure from my usual gig. Chapter Five up 8/9/09
1. Chapter 1

A Better Place to Be

"All right guys keep your eye on the ball and get ready to go!"

Eight-year-old Jacob Reeve stood on second base, the words of his coach ringing in his ears as he kept his eyes peeled on the batter. The Princeton Indians were playing the Trenton Tigers for the championship and Jacob was the winning run. At the ring of the rawhide against the metal bat he took off, legs kicking up clouds of dirt as he rounded third, his coach waving him on. The boy slid head first Into home plate as the umpire signaled safe and Jacob soon found himself swept up in a mass of kids, parents and coaches as his team celebrated the win. Jacob's coach swept up his star shortstop and held him aloft. Suddenly, Jacob was back on the ground as his coach looked at him quizzically

"Are you okay Jake?"

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"Your eyes…they're bleeding."

Jacob reached up and felt under his left eye. Pulling his hand back he saw to his horror it was covered in blood.

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"FUCK!"

Foreman slammed the file down on the table and drew a hand wearily across his face, the exhaustion and frustration etched into his dark features. Across the table were his colleagues, Doctors Chase and Cameron, widened their eyes at the outburst by their normally unflappable co-worker. Their faces were a mask of exhaustion as well, the last 72 straight hours having taken its toll on everyone.

"We've run all the tests we can. It's not a bleeding problem, it's not cancer, it's not lupus and if we don't figure it out Jacob is going to be dead within the day."

"Look eight year olds don't just start bleeding in the middle of a baseball game. It's there; we are just not seeing it," Chase protested, trying to calm his co-worker down.

"Well, Sherlock unless you've got x-ray vision or some new idea that we haven't thought of we're fresh out of options."

"I bet House would know what was wrong," Cameron said the words softly, as if she were ashamed to put into words what the others were also thinking.

"Well, House isn't here, and unless you Lo-Jacked him, there's no way we could find him anyway. Besides, after everything that happened, you really think he'd help us?" Foreman practically growled the last part. The three fellows sat quietly, remembering the sad turn of events that had brought them to this place.

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"You might want to lay down your king now. I have mate in two moves and," House glanced quickly at the clock on the table, "you're running out of time."

His opponent, a tall black man the regulars knew as Mack, scanned the board, his hand resting just above the pieces. Resigned, he let out a breath and tipped his king over, signaling the victory was House's. He stood and extended his hand to House. "Good game, Stickman."

House took the offered hand. "Umm, you still owe me 50 bucks."

Laughing, Mack released House's hand, stuck it into his side pocket and removed the two twenties and one ten from inside and placed them into House's outstretched hand. House folded the bills and slid them into his pocket. Standing, he took up his cane and regarded the other man. "Same time Wednesday?"

With a nod and a small wave Mack confirmed the date before disappearing into the rapidly darkening evening.

Washington Square Park was as far from Princeton as one could get and still be on the East Coast, but then House's life in the year since Detective Michael Tritter walked into Exam Room One had changed just as much. It was true, the deal Wilson and Tritter worked out had spared House any jail time. It was true, the deal House and Tritter had worked out had spared him any sanctions from the medical board. What neither man had forseen was the reaction of the board at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. House finished his two months of rehab and found a summons to the disciplinary board awaiting him upon his return to work. He was being called to task for lying to the parents of an infant, a child who was having trouble keeping food down. House had suspected a blockage in the intestines and wanted to get a scan of the child's digestive tract, but after days of no answers the skeptical parents refused to allow the test. House ordered Cameron and Chase to get the parents to sign for a blood test as a distraction, while he conducted the scan. The scan proved there was indeed a blockage. The parents, though, were less than happy that House had lied to them and complained to the hospital administration.

This latest infraction would get most other doctors a slap on the wrist, but the board of directors jumped it as the excuse they needed to get rid of House. Despite impassioned pleas from Cuddy and Wilson, House was fired. Many on the board remembered the Vogler fiasco, the $100 million House had cost Princeton-Plainsboro, and this latest incident, coming right on the heels of the Tritter incident, proved only that Dr. Gregory House was a cancer feeding on the hospital. Like any other cancer the reasoning went, it needed to be removed permanently.

Cuddy had gotten House six months of severance pay and insurance. She had also written him a recommendation, but the damage was done. When she'd told House he was a good doctor who couldn't get himself hired at a blood bank, she had no idea how prophetic those words would be. Despite the resumes and calls, House's reputation preceded him and no hospital wanted to take the chance on such a loose cannon, no matter how brilliant he supposedly was.

When House started showing up around the boards in the park the regulars paid him little mind. They were used to whiling their days away playing games of chess and Scrabble, often for money. When some of the park's best got together to play it wasn't unusual for a crowd to be drawn to the action. The tall guy with the cane and the faded blue jeans was just another in a long line of gawkers come to look at the show playing every afternoon in the park.

Until the day he sat down at a table.

Speed chess is a game of bluff and bluster as much as skill. Players try to out-psych their opponents, drawing them into traps to control the pace of the game. Big money can be made from players who can deal with the pressure-cooker stress. One of the park's best players was a tall black man named Mack. House had watched Mack as he dispatched his opponent, ruthlessly manipulating the board and the clock, all the while holding up a stream of trash talk that would make a drunken sailor blush. Mack was good, but House, after watching for several days, realized he only had four openings and two defenses, and figured he would be an easy win.

"Winner plays white."

This was fine by House. Playing black was a harder win, as black was a defensive position, the moves determined by the opening play of the opponent's pieces. House knew all he had to do was watch what opening Mack would use and counter his moves.

And so he did. As the two men swapped pieces, House could see the lines of sweat and concentration imprint themselves on Mack's face. The veteran player's body language belied his feelings … this old dude, this cripple was beating him in his park, in his place. He grew nervous and quiet as the chatter around the table fell silent. Down both knights and a rook, Mack tried a bluff move he hoped would pull House into a trap, but the older man sidestepped the trap easily. He captured the last rook, leaving the king exposed.

"Checkmate."

Nodding, Mack looked across the board. House's face was solemn, but a slight grin hovered at the corners of his lips. Mack stood up, his full frame blocking out the sun around the table making House appreciate the reasons behind the man's nickname. Suddenly Mack broke into a wide smile and a deep laugh escaped from his chest. "You're good, Stickman."

"The name's House."

The guy shook his head. "Nah," he said as he pointed his finger at House. "You - stick man."

House looked down at the bane of his life. "Yeah," he sighed. "I da man with da big stick. Now give me my fucking money or I'll bash your head in with it."

Chuckling softly at the crazy white guy in front of him, Mack reached into his pants pocket and removed what would become one of many twenty-dollar bills that would pass between the two men.

House's reputation as a park player quickly grew. Washington Square was host to an odd assortment of misfits, the kind of place where a scruffy guy in jeans with a cane could fit in and no one asked any questions. Most days House stayed over by the chessboards hustling the regulars or tourists for games at 20 to 50 dollars a match.

When the action was thin he passed his time over at the Scrabble boards playing word games for a dollar a point. His first match cemented his legend when, playing through a floating l, he bingoed with fellatio for triple word score and 76 points. It was a ballsy first move and one the park regulars still talked about months later.

House wasn't in need of the money. The sale of his apartment in Princeton had been conducted quickly and in secret, and those funds paid for a small apartment in Queens. His winnings at the games kept him in food and pills. He had told no one his plans, leaving no forwarding address or phone number. Here he was just another anonymous face, Stickman to the regulars. Here there was no politics, no bullshit, you weren't judged by how you looked or acted, merely by what skill you brought to the table. It was exactly the kind of place House has been looking for his entire life.

-----

Chase broke the silence. "I'm going home." He stood up and collected his jacket. "Maybe a few hours of sleep will help me think of something we're missing. I'll call you if anything comes up."

As he pulled out onto the interstate, Chase had no idea what kind of reception awaited him. It wasn't like he had followed House or even had meant to find him. Even Wilson had given up looking after several months, figuring when House had licked his wounds enough he would come out of seclusion.

Chase thought back several months prior. He had been in New York for a conference. The afternoon's session had let out early and, eager to take advantage of the beautiful fall afternoon, Chase had wandered down to the park. He saw the group and listened to the catcalls as they floated on the wind. As he neared the people watching the board games, he saw the familiar figure of his former boss. Chase stood stunned, distracted and unsure if what he was seeing was correct, but there was the brown hair, graying at the temples, the broad shoulders hunched over the thin wooden cane … Chase had found House. He stood on the edge of the crowd, transfixed, watching as his boss dispatched opponent after opponent at games of speed chess. When it appeared no more opponents were forthcoming Chase ducked back into the crowd, slipping away before he could be spotted. He had told no one of his discovery.

Chase pulled his car into a parking spot and fed the meter. He made his way to the chess tables, hoping he would find House there again. He was in luck. He slid into the seat. House was studying the board and didn't look up.

"It's fifty dollars a game. Winner plays white."

"Fine."

The familiar voice and Australian accent caught House off guard. A look of panic crossed his features as his head jerked up to see his former fellow sitting across from him. House swiftly regained his composure, grabbed his cane, and scrambled to his feet. He quickly gimped off, forcing Chase to run to catch up.

Chase reached out to grasp House's arm, almost throwing the older man off his feet.

House spun on Chase angrily. "What do you want!"

"I need your help."

"I guess you're out of luck then, aren't you?"

"House, the patient is a young boy, eight years old." From his back pocket Chase removed a crumpled photo of Jacob in his baseball uniform and shoved it in House's face, "Three weeks ago he was playing ball, slid into home plate and started coughing up blood…no trauma, no cancer, no reason. He's going to die unless we can figure out what's wrong with him. Look, I know I'm probably the last person you want to see now, but I wouldn't have come up here unless it was urgent. Please, help me."

Chase tried to will House to meet his eyes and acknowledge his desperation, but his former boss said nothing, looking away down the park commons. House squinted against the sun, unconsciously tapping his cane against the pebbled walk, then abruptly turned to stroll back toward the chess tables. "It's fifty a game."

He turned and went back to his table. Uncertain of what to expect, Chase followed, watching House sit and begin setting up the pieces.

As they played Chase relayed the tests the team had done. House gave no indication he even heard; his eyes never left the chessboard. It was a close match but House pulled it out in the end. Chase reached into his pocket, withdrew the money and handed it across. House made no attempt to take the bills offered. Chase picked up the king and placed the money underneath. Standing, he began to head back toward his car.

"Chase."

Chase turned back. House continued to sit at the table, his eyes cast down on the board, "Do another MRI of his brain and this time really look at it. The answer is there."

"Thank you."

"Chase" House stood up and regarded his former fellow; his blue eyes, like slivers of ice, cut through Chase's very soul, "Don't come back here again. Ever. You're not welcome here. Any of you."


	2. Chapter 2

AN- Thanks to my beta readers and brain trust DIYSheep, Wihulta, and Priority. All good stuff comes from them, all bad stuff is my fault. The title is inspired by the Harry Chapin song of the same name. 

The brown bag hit the table with a dull thud scattering chess pieces in its wake. Mack looked up with annoyance as House flopped down into the seat across from him.

"Breakfast."

"Already ate."

"At least drink this," House pushed the carton of orange juice across the table, "the only thing worse than warm OJ is warm beer."

"Fine…thanks." Mack took a long draw from the carton. House tried to not be obvious as he watched Mack's hands shake slightly.

"You're diabetic?" House phrased the question in such a way to indicate he already knew the answer.

"Yeah, Type I, How did you know?" Mack's hands were now more noticeably stable.

"You have the shakes and it's cold outside but your sweating means your blood sugar is dropping. When did you eat last?"

"Last night."

"You know you need to eat. You let your blood sugar get out of hand it can not only lead to a diabetic coma but if your lucky not to kill yourself right off you can still damage your eyes, feet, hands etc ect ect."

"You a doctor or something?"

House pointedly ignored the question, "Cripple Code. I am duty bound not to take the last dollar of anyone playing impaired who is not under the influence of drugs or alcohol but enough of my somewhat skewed code of ethics, we going to play or swap recipes all day?"

Mack chuckled to himself, "I'm white."

"Nice try. I won last time. I'm white."

"Hoped you'd forgotten."

Twenty dollars richer, House walked away from the table with his thoughts turning to more pressing matters. The fact was, the twenty in his pocket was the last money he would see for a while and while in NYC there were many places a person could get a cheap, or if need be free meal, there weren't many places handing out free narcotics. House felt slightly guilty taking the last of Mack's money but as the clink of pills against bottle confirmed, sometimes needs went past the aforementioned Cripple Code.

While the park had kept House in funds, it was a life that depended greatly on the calendar and the weather. The beginning of the month was the best, when the disability, retirement, pension, and welfare checks meant the park was flushed with cash, but the end of the month was for the hustlers and desperate, the few souls trying to eek out a few more dollars till the next month started the cycle again. This month was harder than most, a late season cold snap brought with it uncomfortably cold weather and rain. The crowds at the park were thinner, most of the regulars pushed inside to the Scrabble and Chess clubs that dotted the city. The clubs while good for getting out of the rain and cold were not usually the hotbed of hustling that the parks were.

House's thoughts turned once again to more practical matters. He fingered the bottle in his pocket removing a pill he dry swallowed it. There were three left, enough medication to get him to the clinic down on Ninth. The doctor there served the residents of the community, asked few questions, and was usually good for a prescription. House took off, turning his coat collar up against the wind that had increased with the rapidly graying skyline. He took off as fast as his cane would allow, hoping he could make it to the doctor's office ahead of the storm.

He didn't make it.

The sky opened up lashing the city with a fierce spring rain shower, soaking pavement and people alike. House limped quickly to the first place that offered shelter, a small non-descript bar on the corner.

Like most of the buildings in the neighborhood, O'Bannons was a red bricked establishment set back from the road, indistinguishable from the dozens of other building like it House passed on his day's journey. Inside, as his eyes adjusted to the dark interior and haze of smoke House could make out the images of men sitting at the bar nursing their beers and shots of whiskey, bourbon, and scotch. In the corner a few played pool on one of three quarter tables. The bar itself was a masterpiece, a fine carved mahogany counter inlaid with brass fittings. It was a masterpiece, a flashback to a time when both the bar and the surrounding neighborhood had seen better days. House stood, the drops of rain running off his coat left a pool around his ankles. The bar transfixed him. It was an anomaly and House was nothing if not a man obsessed with anomalies.

"Hey buddy, this isn't Grand Fucking Central Station." The voice, laced with a thick Brooklyn accent was coming from the bartender, "Either order something or get the fuck out."

House snapped out of his trance and made his way slowly to the bar, "What have you got on tap?"

"Bud, Bud Lite, Miller and Guinness."

"I'll take a Guinness."

House watched as the bartender pulled the Guinness into a mug, the black malt foamed and threatened to spill over, but the bartender's sure hands stopped the tap at just the right moment. He let it sit before sliding it over to House, "It'll be six bucks."

House fingered the twenty in his pocket. He still needed his pills, but the storm outside showed little sign of letting up. Not wanting to face the wrath of the weather and lacking funds to pay for a cab or bus, House reluctantly handed over the last money he possessed. The bartender handed back his change, one ten and four singles. House placed a dollar on the bar and wandered away from the counter. Tucked into the back corner was a small stage. House spied an upright piano and cautiously made his way to the instrument. It was a Baldwin and like much of the bar it too had seen better days. The wood was chipped, covered in burn marks and circles from countless beer bottles left on its once shiny surface. The keys were cracked and yellow but when House placed his hands on them the sound that ushered forth was rich and true. Unable to contain his joy at playing a piano again House sat down on the stool and began hammering out a complicated jazz tune. It had been at least a year since he had last played a piano, the instrument being one of the first things to go when the money had gotten tight but within minutes his fingers once again found their place. So enraptured was he by the music, House failed to notice the bartender was now standing behind him. Sheepishly, he grabbed his cane and with some difficulty stood up.

"Sorry."

"You're good."

"Thanks." House made for the door.

"Hey." House turned back.

"Look uh, I don't know if you'd be interested but the guy who normally plays here lit for the West Coast and well…we are short a piano player. It's two sets, one with the band, one solo. 25 a set plus tips, two drinks from the bar and dinner from the kitchen."

"Cash?"

The bartender nodded affirmatively.

House bounced his cane lightly against the wooden floor while he thought about it, 50 a night even if he didn't play every night was still a considerable amount of money, more than enough to keep him in drugs as his leg was now reminding him more and more intently. The prospect of a free dinner and drinks didn't sound too bad either.

"I'll take it."

"Start tonight, first set is at 10." The man extended his hand out, "I'm Mitch Reilly."

House grabbed the offered hand giving it a vigorous shake, "Greg House."


	3. Chapter 3

"You gonna make a move?"

Mack snapped out of his trance, "what?"

"I said you gonna make a move, or are you waiting until we end up like Mortimer and Randolph there." House gestured to a nearby table where two older men sat hunched over the board, studying each move with the intensity of a Talmudic scholar. "Of course, if you're stuck you could just hand the money over now. Save us all the trouble."

"Naw, I'm good. Mind's just wandering is all."

"Well, why don't you have it wander back to the board and make a damn move."

Mack gave a small deep-throated chuckle and slid his rook forward. Try as his might; Mack knew his mind just wasn't in the game. Instead he found himself thinking more and more about the man sitting across the board from him.

Mack had played for years in the park and had seen many people like Greg House. The park attracted a certain class of people, outsiders, and eccentric geniuses of all stripes, but few struck Mack the way House did. It wasn't just that House was bright, half the people who frequented the park were bright, it was the man's way of just knowing things. Mack had played for years against some of the park's best players, guys he considered friends, but no one ever knew about his diabetes. House not only knew about the disease, he knew when Mack was in trouble and how to deal with it. They never talked about it afterward, but it piqued his curiosity nonetheless.

House for his part wanted nothing more than for the game to end so he could take a pill. He felt his leg throbbing under the table. He wanted nothing more than to pop out the familiar amber bottle and palm a pill right there and while there were certain actions one could do in the safe confines of a hospital, in a city park in New York City doing so was akin to asking for a mugging. The cane already made House enough of a target, he tried to minimize actions that would draw any additional unwanted attention. He noticed Mack watching him, trying to look at him when he thought the other man wasn't paying attention. Once House caught Mack staring only to see him look down guiltily. He knew Mack had questions and dreaded the day he would finally screw up the courage to ask.

"Good match."

House hmphed quietly, "Next time you plan on being distracted, let me know at the beginning of the game, and I will double the bet. I like easy money but you made it too easy."

"So, Thursday then?"

"I'll think about it."

House limped off as fast as the pain would allow. Tonight was his first night at the club and he needed to get to the pharmacist before going home for a shower and a change. A slight smile played at the corners of his mouth as he thought of the irony of showering and getting prepped for a night playing in a dark, smoke-filled club. Safely free in the confines of the club, House reached into his pocket and thumbed the lid off the pill bottle. Slipping his hand to his mouth, he dry-swallowed the pill. Minutes later he could feel the effects of the Vicodin work its way through his system. It almost made the packed subway ride back to his apartment bearable.

The bar was nearly empty when House made his way through the front door a little before ten. He wasn't surprised; it was after all a Tuesday night and still early by New York club standards. House saw Mitch behind the bar pouring a double for a man at the bar. He waved Greg over.

"Get you something before you go on?"

"I'm good, don't like to drink before I play. Maybe after the first set."

"The rest of the band is in the back. Come on I'll introduce you. Billy you got it?" House looked over where a younger man was pouring a draft of beer. The man gave a small nod. Satisfied Mitch came around the front of the bar and gestured to a small room off the main floor. Entering, House could see four other guys were already there tuning instruments or otherwise just hanging out, "That's Billy, Mike, Jacob, and Robby. Guys this is Greg, he's gonna play piano for you."

The bassist stood and extended his hand, "Robby Sims."

"Greg House."

"House, that's a pretty unusual last name. Cousin got treated by a doctor named House once. You know him?"

House could feel the panic rising in his chest. Thankfully, the room was too dark to see the color drain from his face. Fighting the lump that quickly threatened to cut off his air supply House answered, "can't say I do. Pretty common name though, I know a few House's myself." House gave a nervous chuckle trying to make it seem like a joke hoping against hope the other man would let it drop. It worked; Robby chuckled and went back to tuning his bass.

Disaster averted, the rest of the night passed quickly and smoothly. The band played an eclectic mix of rock covers, jazz and original pieces. House quickly fell into place, his fingers dancing along the keys during the pieces he knew and improvising on the less familiar pieces. As he played he was reminded of his days in college when, short for cash he would play whatever bars and clubs were nearby. He'd toyed briefly with changing his major from biology to music but when he'd mentioned it in passing to his family his father threatened to cut off his tuition money. It was the last time he'd ever mentioned his desire to be a musician.

House's first solo set was scheduled for midnight. By that time a fair share of people were packed into the bar area and surrounding tables. House opened his set with requests he received on his way to the bar. His set was loose and fast, his hands flying over the major and minor chords as he played the requests shouted to him from the bar's patrons. When finally finished he could feel his shirt sticking to his back/ He rose on rubber legs and made his way to the bar. Mitch was there with a smile and a Guinness.

"Thanks."

"You need to save some for the rest of the night."

"Forgot how good it felt to play for a crowd."

"Well, you need to remember to save some of that energy, you still got two more sets to do."

House made his way to the back room and reached into his pocket. Pulling out the wad of crumpled bills he counted out over 50 dollars in tips. He smoothed the bills out and placed them back deep within his pocket. House heeded Mitch's warning but knew deep down, as long as he had the crowd, he would have the energy to keep playing.

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AN- Thanks go out to Priority, Wih and DIY Sheep for their beta and concrit. If this story is good they deserve the props. If it sucks, the fault is all mine.


	4. Chapter 4

House awoke face down on his bed, his head keeping double four time with his leg. Groaning, he pushed himself up onto his elbows and immediately regretted it when the room began spinning. The slight movement woke his body up even more and his bladder joined the chorus of body parts demanding House's undivided attention. Groaning with every step House stumbled to the bathroom.

Business finished House got a good look at himself in the mirror. Bloodshot eyes took in hair sticking straight up, the effects of sleeping in the same position for several hours straight. He was fully dressed, his clothes still reeking of cigarettes and alcohol from the night before. House ran his tongue over the roof of his mouth and teeth trying to get rid of the fuzzy feeling of not being brushed in quite a while. House gave a small chuckle and tried to ignore the pounding in his head. He could just imagine the look on the doctor's face if he tried to get to the clinic in his current shape. No matter how liberal the 15th Street Clinic was House highly doubted he would get even an aspirin looking like he just came off a four-day bender. As he stripped and climbed into the shower House tried to recall the night prior. He remembered his first set with the band and then his first solo set. He remembered playing the second set with the band and then beginning his second solo set. He came off the stage fully exhausted; the good exhausted though, the sleep the sleep of the just tired. However, everywhere he looked hands reached out to grab his to offer congratulations or drinks. House found himself sitting in a corner booth surrounded by bar patrons. At some point a round appeared and then another. House quickly lost track, just as he had lost track of how he had gotten home. He could only imagine that someone, probably Mitch, put him into a cab and sent him home. In light of what could happen to a crippled drunk in the middle of Brooklyn at 4AM a little hangover wasn't the worst thing that could happen House reasoned.

#

A/N Thanks to all the people who have been asking about this story. It occurred to me looking at it that the last time I updated was August 20, 2007, my 31st birthday...so consider this a birthday gift from me to you. Today is August 20, 2008, my 32nd birthday. This is just little taste while I work on the longer story line but I promise it won't be August 20th 2009 before you see that chapter.


	5. Chapter 5

A BETTER PLACE TO BE- CHAPTER FIVE

Danny sighed softly to himself, as he watched the man slowly make his way through the store. For the past three years it was always the same. The colder weather drove people indoors and away from the parks. For the men who made their real living in the park, the colder weather was an economic disaster. At least three times this week he had to chase would be shoplifters out of the store. Why, Danny thought to himself would anyone want to steal a metronome or a few packs of guitar strings was beyond him but at least once a month he got a phone call from Kim's Pawn Shop telling him he had items to pick up. Maybe it was a weird honor amongst thieves system Mr. Kim had going with the local community. Danny would think about it each month as he made the trek down the block to collect the cardboard box Kim kept under the counter for him. Most of the neighborhood people were hard working folks just struggling to keep themselves and their families afloat and out of harm's way. But when the money got tough or the weather turned bad, it was then Danny could expect to make the trip down the street. Mr. Kim never paid for any of the items brought to him. Instead, the package of diapers or sandwiches, or the address to a fully stocked food bank or emergency shelter would make their way across the counter to the person. There was never any retribution or words of condemnation just the thing the person need, just one neighbor helping another. Truth be told, Danny had to admit, Mr. Kim was actually responsible for keeping the crime rate down in the neighborhood. By handling everyone who came into his shop as though they were a ordinary customer, Mr. Kim was keeping people from desperate actions. He once explained to Danny that all people really wanted in life was to be treated with respect even if the reason they are doing business with you is less than respectful.

Still, Danny figured, it didn't mean he had to encourage illegal behavior in his store. He had gotten good at reading the various people who came into the shop and usually made it known that he was watching. About half the time the person would get the hint and leave without taking anything but Danny couldn't be everywhere at all times and people knew this. The man who was now entering the store had all the classic looks of someone up to no good. His jeans were clean but worn and the brown, leather jacket he had on was thinner than one should have been wearing for the temperatures outside. He walked with a cane and a limp, but Danny wasn't fooled. He had seen too often in his ten years living in the city, supposedly crippled con artists take off at a run when the cops showed up. If anything the cane encouraged Danny to watch them more.

It was his appearance that drew Danny's attention. But it was the man's behavior that kept it on him. Unlike the others that made for the glass cases near the front or the pegboards along the wall, this one went towards the guitar displays along the far wall. He stopped in front of a Martin acoustic guitar and then reached out to pluck the E string of the Ibanez bass hanging next to it.

"Can I help you?" Danny called out to the man. The man turned and shook his head slowly before turning back towards the guitar display.

It was an odd way to act for someone about to commit a crime. The guy should really have been trying not to draw attention to himself. Instead it drew Danny closer to him. It also aggravated him greatly. He had a lot of inventory to stock and he couldn't get his work done while also watching to make sure this guy wasn't going to try and one up his fellow crooks by lifting a 2500-dollar guitar.

The sounds of the bell above the door took Danny's attention away from the man and towards the mother daughter combo now entering the store. Danny lost track of the man, as he helped the mother choose between a clarinet and a oboe for her daughter. All the while trying not to laugh as he noticed the daughter longingly eye the drum kits in the window. Forty-five minutes later Danny sent the duo on their way, the daughter hugging her new saxophone case. It was a compromise. The discussion of which Danny was forced to sit through. The two argued over which instrument would be less likely to piss off their neighbors in the apartment complex with its sound and which would make the most impact on the High School applications.

When the store was empty, Danny made his way over to the guitars. He fully expected to see a hole where the ebony bass guitar once hung or a gap where the smaller display items once lay. What he didn't expect to see was the man sitting in front of the upright piano in the corner, lightly playing a Mozart piano concerto.

"That's a beautiful instrument. Good choice."

The man turned and grabbed his cane to stand. "Sorry, I don't get many chances to play anymore and my place is too small to have one." The man tried to make it sound matter of fact, but Danny detected the sadness behind the man's words. It was then that Danny realized he wasn't talking to some vagabond off the street, but the new piano player at O'Bannons. Danny had dipped into the bar last week while on a date and ended up paying more attention to the piano player than to the girl he came with.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be messing with your merchandise. I'll go."

Danny thought quickly. Suddenly he remembered a conversation he had with a buddy of his at the local Boys and Girls Club. The man was trying to start a music program and was in need of an instructor.

"It's no big. Hey, I don't mean to overstep my bounds or anything, but I know a guy who runs a program for school kids. It's a few hours after school but he's a big music buff and I am sure he would let you use the piano in the down time…I mean if this is something that you would be interested in…I don't want wanna force you or anything. It's just a possibility if you're interested."

The man looked down, tapping his cane on the floor while he contemplated the offer. He tried not to look too eager, but Danny could see the hunger flash across his face. Finally, he looked up and Danny saw a faint glimmer of both hope and resignation. He nodded slightly.

"Let me go get his number. By the way, I'm Daniel McIntyre. Everyone calls me Danny."

"I'm Greg House. Everyone calls me House."


End file.
